The kitchen sitting room, if that’s an an actual thing, also at sunrise. The brick fireplace was in place when mom and my stepfather moved in, they had the saltillo tiles installed throughout public areas of the ground floor. You see the extra height added to one of the little loveseats; my stepfather is tall.

The dining area, or nook, really, sits between the large living room and the kitchen. Which works well, since it’s both decorative and functional. Damn I love a good chandelier. The painting, lighting, clock and table are all Swedish. The chest of drawers is from Mom’s side, whether English or American I do not know. By the way, we never pass food through that window.

Down the hall, Mom’s chaise longue in the master bedroom. She’s set up a similar perch in every house she’s lived in since, um, 1965 at least. Swedish folk art on the walls, mohair throw on the chaise.

Let’s go upstairs. How about one of the the guest rooms? Or at least its wall? Framed Alice in Wonderland illustrations.

And bedding? I rather like the lace shams against a green and gray-blue floral duvet.

From the other guest balcony, one can survey Mom’s planters. They are somewhat meager these days, the drought regulations prevent outdoor water usage. Usually they’re full of hibiscus, geraniums, and sage.

Among the pictures, one of my mother’s mother, who we called Grandmama, sitting by the fire with little blond Mom and her brother and sister.

That really was their dog.

Up one final half flight of stairs, is Mom’s little office. Here she mixes red patterns. The gingham is fading.

And finally, in that same office, the story cabinet. Mom collected curios, and kept them here. The grandchildren were allowed to come and pick one in the evenings, and my mother would make up a story and tell it to them.

Thank you for the photo request. I realize that in the taking, I have also caught the place where I came with my children for more than 20 years. They remember Granny’s house as part of their lives, even though the grownups have grown forgetful. Mom meant to make a home and a space for her whole family, and she did it with a generous spirit and eye.

It’s important that she consumes no alcohol, so at 5pm one evening I made her a drink with Pellegrino, fresh squeezed Meyer lemon from her tree, sugar, and mint sprigs. What the French probably call citron pressé avec gaz, and the Vietnamese restaurants in San Francisco sell as fresh lemon soda.

I used one of her old silver iced tea spoons to stir, and also as the straw she needed for drinking, The stem is hollow, it works like all straws do.

There’s been some brouhaha recently about privilege. A young woman ostensibly wrote an article complaining that people hated her because she has money. Her voice was not terribly likeable. You can read the original post, and then a response, both in Thought Catalog. The responder sounds like a much nicer person.

This all may have been manufactured for noise – fake writers, fake stories, and so on. But the issue of privilege persists.

In some cultures discussing one’s good fortune is well accepted. In America, I think it’s better tempered by humility and discretion. However, I began this blog as a way to tell the story of Mom’s iced tea spoons and their place in my memory. Vivid from childhood just as others remember peach pies baking, the lure of lakes in public parks, spice grinders, loam.

We’re all human beings, a species of animal, after all. It’s very complex, figuring out right and wrong, correct and incorrect, at least I have always found it so. So I try not to be a jerk. That much is pretty simple. We get born and if we’re lucky we get old. I’d save hate for those few times it’s really warranted.

Susan wrote me to suggest this post from the archives. Thank you Susan. It’s my mother’s house, in Santa Barbara. You will read references to chaos. My stepfather had returned early from the hospital after emergency heart surgery and I had driven down to help out. As we do in my culture when faced with extreme events, I focused on furniture.

On Thursday, Thanksgiving, my daughter, my son, my sister and brother-in-law and their daughter, my brother and sister-in-law, cooked all day. Then we ate. The 9-year old led us all in a round of Gangnam Style rug-cutting.

The next morning, we got up and drove en mass to Santa Barbara for my mother’s 80th birthday party. And family reunion. Of 40-ish people. A warmer, more affectionate, more truly interested-in-what-each-other-had-to-say group would be hard to imagine.

The first wave met at a pizza parlor Friday night.The traditional red and white tablecloth came with succulent centerpieces. It’s Santa Barbara.

Saturday we had lunch at my mother’s. We parked in the cul-de-sac.

One of my Artsy Cousins, of the Crafty variant, got carried away with bunting, to our great delight. She made the Happy Birthday above too.

A niece and I picked flowers from mom’s yard and stuck them into water glasses. We used a Bird of Paradise, because that’s what grows in Santa Barbara yards.

We set the tables with navy blue tablecloths and kelly green napkins because, well you know why. Then, wholly unknowing, one of my sisters turned up in shades of blue and green, the other in a bright kelly tee. I don’t invent all this. I changed into a blue and white striped shirt of my mother’s because a) it was sunny and close to 80 degrees b) solidarity.

In fact the sun was so bright it turned kelly green to white in this photo. I’m sure there’s a larger transformative inference to be drawn, but you don’t need my help.

Lunch was served from a taco truck, which, an odd twist of fate, turned out to offer Tiki Tacos. Hawaiian food, if you will, accompanied by Bob Marley reggae. . The company set out a palm frond umbrella on my mother’s Southern California Spanish-ish driveway. I could make a cultural statement here, but, again, how about not? How about it was just a family eating some food on a warm day in the sunshine?

I’m reluctant to analyze the heartfelt which is not mine alone.

We had dinner at the club where Mom plays bridge. The chef used one of her recipes – Chicken Paprika. Nice china. I have a secret penchant for highly ornate tables. Maybe we all do. The austere takes you only so far.

We all toasted Mom, which my brother videotaped so she can play them over to her heart’s content. I toasted her family, who came over to America in the 1600s, and worked hard at preaching and governing and building a factory. And Mom, who worked hard at being a good mom. And did a damn good job.

High WASPs use the word damn to indicate great emotion.

Those of you who read regularly might have noticed I was absent Saturday morning. Consider this that missing post. Mom’s 80th Birthday, Or, Saturday Morning Forever and Ever. To all the Cousins, Artsy, Teaching, Scientific, Religious, Professorial, Managerial, Mothers, and Other, thank you so, so very much. We had a wonderful time.

As I left work last night, released with the souls of Friday, I got a text that said, simply, “Chualarrrrrrr!” Why on earth?

There’s good reason. Chualar is a little town located along Highway 101, between the San Francisco Bay Area and Santa Barbara. My sister ‘s family drove down to see my mother in Santa Barbara for Easter weekend this year. Our families say “Chualar!” to each other, by phone or text, whenever we pass the freeway exit.

The ritual began several years back when we all drove down together, my son, myself, my sister, my brother-in-law, their daughter. I think it must have been fairly soon after my divorce. The timeline of those years is blurry but I remember the trip made change clear.

You should know, upon hearing of the impending parental separation, my son had asked, “Can we still all go to Santa Barbara together?”

Anyway, that day, we drivers decided to stop for lunch in Chualar. It was uncomfortable, circling, looking for food. Even in our nondescript small Toyotas, we reeked of privilege. Chualar does not have restaurants. Chualar does have a liquor store, and a dusty parking lot. We got out of our Toyotas to check.

The wind blew.

My brother-in-law and I cocked our heads. He nodded in the direction of the freeway. I said something like, “Yeah. Let’s go.” Much left unsaid – that the region was known for drive by gang shootings, that in another reality we might have stayed in the town and committed to serving its people, that we were silly to have thought that freeway exits always mean hamburgers.

That probably somewhere in town, unrecognizable to us, there was a place to eat and the food would be great but we were on a different trajectory.

That I was recently divorced, that my son was a teenaged boy whom I adored and not much of a one for talking.

I wanted to retrieve the experience from embarrassment and nerves, find our way back to my mother’s house and the end of the road. We got in our cars. We drove. My phone rang. “CHUALAAARRRRRR!” said my brother-in-law. The prismatic kindness of families.

More recently, my son and I made the drive again. Just us. He texted my brother-in-law, as always, “Chualar!” I should ask my boy what he remembers of Chualar, except probably I know. Were he still little, I’d keep the story secret, without annotation. All meanings genial, jovial, jocular. But there’s a time to open curtains.

Turns out Chualar means Where The Chual Grows, chual being a native plant also known as “goosefoot” or “pigweed.” Thank goodness for random. Have a wonderful weekend, celebrating Passover, Easter, and small towns in Central California.

I spent last weekend in Santa Barbara, visiting my mother and meeting up with my sisters and their families. If all the nieces and nephews stay in separate bedrooms, my sisters get better nights’ sleep. So I checked into the nearby Bacara Resort for a few nights. And was quite pleasantly surprised.

The Bacara website drips with Los Angeles aesthetics. I mean, does this photo make YOU want to pay the place a visit? I think it must be targeted towards male movie industry executives. Somebody would surely poke me in the stomach if I assumed a similar position. Causing me to squeal and sit up rapidly. Too rapidly to manage the generous bathrobe.

But the resort itself has been designed and built in classic Santa Barbara style. What does that mean, you might ask? Certainly not black and white. The aesthetic loves an earth tone.

We will say it’s half Spanish decor, half movie western. With a sense of playfulness and an appreciation for nature.

The resort grounds are quite large, covered by many low buildings nestled into hilly, treed, grounds. Bougainvillea grows up around arches. The smell of eucalyptus is light in the air, especially after a rain.

The rooms are also decorated in Spanish-western style, mixed with striped English-y bed linens and blue toile cushions. Quite nice. I love it when hotels look as though a person decorated them, not a machine. That is toile, right?

A fireplace. With pillar candles at the ready. In fact the resort seems to have invested heavily in pillar candles as glowing cylinders pop up at every turn.

The Bacara has a big spa, which sits right next to one of the resort pools. I wasn’t there to get pampered, but ran up the stairs and peeked in any way. Don’t worry. I asked permission. Light, open, quiet. I did use the workout facilities. They are large, full of absolutely everything you could want, and not overly crowded. And who doesn’t love a robust palm tree or two?

Of the three restaurants. Miro, Bistro, and the Spa Cafe, we ate only at the latter.

A delicious breakfast. The Bonne Maman honey jar was clearly Mise’s doing. How she transported it here from Ireland I do not know.

As I said, the spa was next to one of the resort’s pools. Implying that there are others. Yes. Two others. Behold the main swimming pools, with Grandpa Neptune watching from his throne in the Pacific Ocean. Glorious sight, which would be irresistible in sunshine. There’s almost nothing better for bones than a good drying-out under the Southern California sun. One can always retreat to one’s cabana as required.

And then, if you have to get up very early in the morning, and happen to drive south, the Santa Barbara mountains may reveal themselves in all their painted glory. Causing you to have to leap from your automobile and wander around airport yards stepping in puddles. In hopes of a photo to show your friends.

A few notes to make sure the Bacara would suit your needs. This is not primarily a beach resort. It abuts Bacara Beach, which I didn’t visit, but I don’t hear raves. I recommend you hop in your car and drive 10-15 minutes south to Hendry’s Beach. Other beach suggestions can be found here. It should also be noted that the Bacara is about 20 minutes north of Santa Barbara proper, but only 10 minutes from the Santa Barbara airport.

Just wave to me as you pass by San Francisco. OK?

Have a wonderful weekend.

Images:
Woman in bathrobe, Bacara Resort, rest are mine.
Rates start at $350/night but I’ve heard tell of discounts down to $180 on occasion.
And no, no compensation was received in return for this natter. Is natter a noun?

]]>http://amidprivilege.com/2011/02/review-bacara-resort-santa-barbara/feed/45In Which We Learn The True Story About Softball With The Kennedyshttp://amidprivilege.com/2010/09/in-which-we-learn-the-true-story-about-softball-with-the-kennedys-2/
http://amidprivilege.com/2010/09/in-which-we-learn-the-true-story-about-softball-with-the-kennedys-2/#commentsMon, 27 Sep 2010 13:00:00 +0000http://amidprivilege.com/2010/09/in-which-we-learn-the-true-story-about-softball-with-the-kennedys-2/

Recently, I told a story about my mother playing softball with the Kennedy family in Hyannisport, Massachusetts. The other day she called me to set me straight.

As my mother remembers, there were two groups of young people on that part of the Cape, in the early 50’s. My mother hung with the crowd that lived a dangerous, hot-house life. Frequented piano bars. The Kennedy’s crew called them the “Pansies.” In return, my mother’s group called the Kennedy crew the “Barefoot Boys.” Because, I suppose, they ran wild and free.

One year, the softball games between the Pansies and the Barefoot Boys went on all season. Came the final game. Apparently, in an act of ruthlessness, focus, and sprezzatura, the Kennedys brought in some Boston Red Sox as ringers. The story does not include a record of who won. We can guess.

Whether to call this “cheating,” or a brilliant act of nonchalant insolence, I leave to you. Along with the implications of terms from another time.

]]>http://amidprivilege.com/2010/09/in-which-we-learn-the-true-story-about-softball-with-the-kennedys-2/feed/33Ten Signs You May Have A High WASP Guest Roomhttp://amidprivilege.com/2010/08/ten-signs-you-may-have-a-high-wasp-guest-room-2/
http://amidprivilege.com/2010/08/ten-signs-you-may-have-a-high-wasp-guest-room-2/#commentsWed, 18 Aug 2010 13:30:00 +0000http://amidprivilege.com/2010/08/ten-signs-you-may-have-a-high-wasp-guest-room-2/

Sign #1. You furnish your guest room in a patriotic color scheme. Especially when you live by the sea. Red, white, and blue are so nautical. Invest in matching bedding and some throw pillows as an inexpensive way to make everything look like it’s there on purpose.

Sign #2. You purchase your guest room furniture from some place reputable, but you avoid family antiques and other treasures. Your guests would feel terrible if they broke something you care about. You would never want guests to feel badly. That’s the whole point of hospitality.

Sign #3. You stock up on bathroom sundries. For some reason, everyone forgets razors and they are embarrassing to ask for. The disposable ones are perfect.

Sign #4. Your guest room has enough space for a guest kitchen. Yeah, I know. It’s small. Only room for early morning breakfasts, when your guests don’t want to bumble around in your kitchen looking for tea, or eggs, or orange juice. Or late night snacks. Personal eating.

Sign #5. You absolutely have to hang a framed etching of seashells. All scientific-like. The frame matches your bedspreads. A dark red for timeless style.

Sign #6. You have a sleeping loft and ladder. This is optional, but makes for very happy grandchildren. Their parents, i.e. your children, may have falling out anxiety at first. They’ll get over it. Sleeping lofts add flexibility come Christmas, when, not unsurprisingly, all your children AND your stepchildren AND their families will want to come down for a few nights.

Sign #7. Your guest room has a guest deck. Used for the playing of board games. Sometimes your daughter will have to take your grandchildren out of the main house and quiet them down. You want to enable her. If her children don’t quiet down after the playing of board games, she will need to send her husband to jump into the swimming pool with said children, while she sits and contemplates a glass of wine. Alone. Aren’t extended families wonderful?

Sign #8. Your guest room has outside stairs. Covered in vines. You hide that pesky ping pong table and grill underneath. You have a ping pong table to begin with. Also a croquet set. FAmly tournaments are a tradition, but someone usually cries. Fortunately that someone is mostly under 8 years old.

Sign #9. The view from the guest room deck requires an iPhone app called “Autostitch” to capture what they call a “Panorama.” Because it is, in fact, a panorama. Click on the photo for a fuller effect.

Sign #10. You understand how privileged you are to have this much space in a beautiful spot, so you share. Your children are always welcome. Your grandchildren and their multitude of friends are always welcome. Even as teenagers. That’s saying something. You house visiting musicians and singers for the local symphony. Sometimes for months at a time. You are a generous soul, and your daughter thanks you in a somewhat complex manner. Because she still hasn’t learned that a simple thank you will suffice.

It has come to my attention that High WASPs believe throw pillows to be a critical component of house decor. That with a naked sofa, or chaise longue, you just haven’t finished decorating. Luckily, should you be inspired to try High WASP decor in your house (for reasons known only to yourself), nifty pillows these days are easily come by.

That did not use to be the case. Interior designers were required, with mysterious swatches. Terracotta chenille squares, flecked with blue, strewn across the floor. Although the ultimate luxury is to have a skilled human being directing your pillow implementation, one can now, if necessary, do without.

I remember, my first sofa ever came from Macy’s in New York City. For some indecipherable reason it was brown. No pillows. It’s possible that this bothered my mother. She never said. The next sofa I had made by some fab New York design studio or other, with the guidance of a designer. It was a mushroom colored velveteen. Definitely had pillows. Cream and gold ikat-style silk with a fuchshia accent. Quite subtle, actually. Really, they were.

When that sofa’s upholstery finally gave up the ghost, we had it recovered. Never got around to the pillows. A sad situation. When I finally sent that sofa off to live with my daughter, I was no longer interested in or able to afford custom furniture. I made my way to Pottery Barn. Where I discovered that they did the pillows for me. I will love Pottery Barn forever.

However, if you have the energy and desire to do your own pillowation, here are some pillow thoughts.

Restful, serene, camel cashmere. For the bedroom, on your chaise longue. (Note. This particular piece of furniture is not pronounced chaez lounge. It’s more like chaez long. The term means, simply, “long chair,” in French. Who knew?) One would not monogram one’s living room. But the bedroom, yes, in peaceful shades.

You might decorate your living room, in mid-century style, the pillows an ironic commentary on something. Or not.

You might find these in your mom’s living room. Oh, wait, that is my mom’s living room. Because she, of course, is never without the right accoutrements. I doubt she’s ever bought anything at Pottery Barn. But times change. As they must. And should.

*Jill also has a thing for pillows over here.**This is my favorite pillow of all time.***Fresno****Spellcheck courtesy Lauren

I entered because I found the initialed pillow she offered to be quite classic, and summer house-ish. I like initials. Probably all that early training in monograms. High WASPs do like their monograms. (I like summer too, which is icumen-in round here.) These are also pillows-in-good-conscience, as they are made from recycled sails. High WASPs like a good conscience, these days.

After I found out I had won, but before any choosing of letters, my stepfather got sick. He’s a long time sailor, around islands in the Swedish Archipelago, and now in the Santa Barbara harbor. It seemed like a good thing to have the pillow made for him, and then order another one for my mother. So that’s what I did. They arrived in the middle of the chaos of my stepfather’s recovery.

Not the one I won, but similar

I asked my mother for her product review. Mom’s good at assessing stuff. She says the pillows have a nice texture, like really good linen paper, and are sewn in attractive zig-zag stitching. These are 12 inch pillows with 10 inch letters, so big, and bold. In Santa Barbara, you would put these out on your porch, or around the pool. They are more sophisticated than preppy, says Mom. I didn’t ask her how she defines preppy, these days. So let’s take that as preppy in the 1940’s. The pillows are not quaint, but graphic. The ultimate compliment? They are very “good looking.” If my sister is reading, she’s laughing. Tell me you don’t laugh at certain family phrases.

Mom also says they would been really good for her parent’s house in Tolland, Massachussets, at the Tunxis Fish and Game Club, or up in Maine, on one of those hanging canvas swings that everyone had.

Not the actual house, but similar, from that era

Or maybe for the family house on Cape Cod. It was large, 3-storey, covered in gray shingles, with a long gravel driveway out front. Since we lived in Northern California, we didn’t spend much time there. Still, I remember it very well. The smell of sun on dune grass, and the way it whips your legs. Splinters in our fingers from the gray wood, and the way the spiky lawn pricked our feet. The laundry shed, and the crack of sheets drying on a line. Chintz and wicker chairs on the back porch, grownups drinking, croquet, and the ocean just over there. Almost like a cartoon, except it was real.

There must have been pillows.

One summer we spent enough time on the Cape that my mother signed us up for the Wianno Yacht Club’s summer program. I was 12, old enough to take sailing lessons, young enough to have no idea of the connotations of a yacht club. It felt just like any other place where kids are taught activities, and lunch can be bought at a snack bar. The teachers put us, two at a time, into little boats and sent us sailing out in the harbor, alone. For the last night, we sailed, all of us, out to a sandbar and they fed us pancakes, made from batter kept in the water to stay cold. Little fish swarmed around the container, nibbling. We seemed so far from shore. But I digress.

Not the exact view from Mom’s house, but nearby. Similar. Sometimes approximate is all we get.

The Santa Barbara beach down the hill from my mother’s house now smells like petroleum, just under the scent of tropical flowers and salt ocean. We take beach tar off our feet when we return, sitting on a bench outside the front door, surrounded by sand on tile, baskets of shovels, and the skin of little wet children. The sun is shining. We, the women, know the children are probably hungry and plan food, urgently, over their heads. Pillows or no pillows. Everything I say is true. I am not sure if it matters.